Perspectives
by DJTCluva
Summary: After "No Reason", as House floated through unconsciousness and hallucinations, those left behind were dealing with the aftermath.
1. The Request

**Perspectives**

**Summary:** After _No Reason_, as House floated through unconsciousness and hallucinations, those left behind were dealing with the aftermath. Here are their stories, glimpses into the chaos and uncertainty felt after the shots were fired.

**Disclaimer:** Just borrowing the characters and storyline, I promise to give them back just as soon as I'm finished. Please don't sue me.

**Chapter One: The Request**

"It's going to be okay. You're going to be okay." She had said stupidly, voice shaking, stumbling along with his gurney. He was nearly unconscious, but she could almost feel waves of disapproval radiating from him. Her optimistic (what he chose to call naïve) attitude was a constant source of rebuke in their relationship.

"You don't know that." He had said softly, confirming her suspicions. A million replies ran through her head: you HAVE to be okay, I think my optimism is the least of your worries right now, I love you please don't leave me, you're gushing blood from your neck maybe you should think about shutting up. None of them seemed adequate; they swirled and collided with one another in her head, and the result was an even more inadequate silence.

"Tell Cuddy I want ketamine."

A few seconds after his request, her brain processed what he had just told her. Ketamine? He wants…ketamine? She opened her mouth and fumbled about for a reply, but closed it again when she realized his eyes had slipped shut.

Within moments everything around her moved into overdrive. As they neared the trauma room, people engulfed the gurney from both sides. She could hear the elastic snap as pairs of gloves were put on, and the urgency in each and every voice (though she couldn't, for the life of her, make out what they were saying). She fell back, gloved hands warm and glistening with his fresh blood. He was in the ER doctors' territory now, and she recognized (albeit reluctantly) that they were better prepared to deal with his injuries then her, or Chase, or Foreman.

She took a step back, craning her neck in an attempt to see House, to see what was going on. Her breath hitched as she realized she couldn't see him, couldn't hear him. In her years of working for him, he had always made his presence known. When House was around, whether you liked it or not, you knew. But now…where was he?

Words flitted through her mind: blood…surgery…police…bullet. She glanced around frantically, trying to place the words in the context of a conversation, desperately searching for who was speaking, what they were doing. She felt herself beginning to hyperventilate as she tried in vain to focus. She was losing it; the gunshots, the fear, and the blood came rushing back into her memory. She looked down at her crimson hands and thought briefly that she might just throw up.

She could hear the hurried clicking of heels on tile behind her. She turned to find Cuddy beside her. The normally unflappable administrator looked as if she also might throw up. Her blue eyes darted around the room in an attempt to make some sense of the situation. She glanced briefly at the three of them, searching their eyes for some explanation that was impossible to find. There was no explanation. What had just happened?

"What happened?" Cuddy asked, voice powerful if not somewhat shaky. Cameron watched as the Dean of Medicine pushed her way through the crowd surrounding House, demanding answers that no one could give her.

She stood for a few moments, unconsciously rubbing her slick fingers together, entranced by the scene before her. Her heart was pounding furiously in her chest, and her breathing seemed impossibly loud.

What had just happened?

Searching for some semblance of order amongst the chaos, she attempted a mental run-through of the last ten minutes. The man, the gun, the…shots. The blood, the gurney, the elevator. The bright lights of the ER, House's pale face, the ketamine…the ketamine!

"Dr. Cuddy!" She shouted hoarsely.

Cuddy neither answered nor turned her head. There was no acknowledgement that she had even been heard. Cameron took a step towards her, the importance of relaying House's request ripping her from her trance.

"Dr. Cuddy. I—"

"Not now, Cameron." She interrupted angrily, without so much as a glance.

Cameron, pushed by her newfound sense of purpose, reached forward and grabbed Cuddy's forearm, yanking it in urgency. Cuddy, startled, pivoted to face her. Scowling, the administrator looked down to where Cameron's bloodied hand was still gripping her arm.

Cameron yanked her hand back quickly. She had forgotten about the blood. For a moment the two women stared down at Cameron's bloodied handprint, crimson red against Cuddy's vibrant white lab coat. After a few seconds Cameron looked up and into her eyes. Normally crystal-clear blue, she could now see only sadness and fear.

"Ketamine." She whispered. "He said he wanted ketamine."

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	2. The Call

**Chapter Two: The Call  
**

"The kitchen was just remodeled, four months ago." The suited woman stated matter-of-factly, glancing at the clipboard she gripped in her manicured hands. She strode down the hall and into the kitchen, heels clicking on the hardwood floor. Her hips swayed slightly and Wilson, being a life-long appreciator of the female body, stared at her retreating form. "New refrigerator with full freezer, water and ice dispenser included. Does your girlfriend like to cook?"

She turned towards him, batting her eyelashes and smiling broadly. Her teeth were straight and amazingly white. He could feel his heart starting to race.

"No girlfriend." He smiled back at her, his patented Wilson smile, which had successfully lured three wives, dozens of girlfriends, and more than a few lovers. The 'panty-peeler' grin, House had jealously but aptly named it, a few months into their friendship. "But I love to cook."

"Surprising." She said, tilting her head. "I wouldn't have expected you to…enjoy cooking."

He stared into her sparkling eyes, and silently celebrated. He couldn't believe his luck. He had made this appointment at the last minute, having finally grown tired of the headache-inducing antiseptic smell and tightly tucked bed sheets of his hotel room. With a new sense of initiative, he had taken the afternoon off and scheduled a tour of the first acceptable-sounding apartment he had come across in the morning paper. The apartment was fine, but this…this woman (what was her name?)…was an unexpected (but highly appreciated) bonus.

"I taught myself in medical school." He said. He had her hooked, and the only thing left was to reel her in. "I started with macaroni and toasted cheese, but I've evolved."

Her eyes widened slightly at the mention of medical school, and she giggled lightly.

"The stove was just installed, and—"

Her lilting voice was halted by the sound of his cell phone blaring from the pocket of his slacks. He sighed, reluctantly retrieving it.

"Excuse me for a moment." He said apologetically, glancing down at the screen. Lisa Cuddy. "It's the hospital, it could be an emergency."

"Of course." She said, leaning seductively against the countertop. "Take your time."

He flipped open his phone, and walked into the empty dining room.

"Dr. Wilson." He answered, just loud enough for his new prospect to hear.

"Wilson?" She had only said one word, but his heart immediately began to race. This did not sound like the Cuddy he knew, cool and collected. She sounded…panicked.

"Cuddy? What is it?" He asked, furrowing his brown in concern.

"It's House." She said shakily, and he could hear her breathing in sharp gasps. Icy fear settled in the pit of his stomach, and his already racing heart burst into overdrive. "He was shot. Twice."

"What?!" He asked, struggling to hold his cell phone steady in his shaking hand. "How—is he okay?"

"He's…he's lost a lot of blood. The second bullet hit an artery, he…Wilson…"

Attractive real estate agent completely forgotten, he fumbled across the empty apartment and flung open the front door.

"I'm coming." He said, stumbling down the stairs and out into the afternoon sunshine. "Cuddy, I'm on way."

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	3. The Stain

**Chapter Three: The Stain**

The stain was smaller than he would have expected. There had been blood—so much blood—gushing from the neck wound, seeping from the stomach wound, coating their hands and creeping up their shirtsleeves. He glanced down at his hands for a moment. They had been scrubbed clean and smelled like antiseptic, and scrubs had long ago replaced his stained clothes. Thrown away, tossed aside, down the drain like if they didn't have to see House's blood, it never really happened. Out of sight, out of mind.

The stain really should be bigger.

He shifted his position slightly, stretching his long legs out on the carpeted floor, head tipping back to rest on the wall behind him. But his eyes never left the stain, so horribly impure and out of place, a constant reminder of what had happened earlier that day. No attempt had been made as of yet to remove the stain (Whose job would that be? Would they know what had happened? Would they know anything, beyond a glance at the name on the office door, about whose blood they were trying to extract from the carpet? Would they care?), and it had set deeply into the plush fabric. It would never be the same.

Than again, he would probably never be the same either.

He took a deep breath, the acrid smell of blood infiltrating his nostrils. He could almost hear the shots ringing out in the room, almost feel the burst of adrenaline and fear he had felt in those pivotal seconds. He closed his eyes, images flashing through his mind. Cameron frantically calling House's name, her small pale hands covered in shiny red blood. Foreman's frantic expression as he looked between House and the retreating shooter, searching desperately for a clue about what to do next. House, paler than he had ever seen him, eyes closed, mouth slack—

"Chase?"

He opened his eyes, and looked wearily upwards. Foreman looked down at him, arms crossed, frowning in concern.

"You okay?"

Okay? Was he okay? Was it possible to be okay after a day like today?

"I'm fine." He said softly, rubbing his hands along his face. "Just tired."

"There's a ton of people out there." Foreman said, leaning against the conference room table. "Usually people avoid this office like the plague. Now it's Princeton's main attraction."

He couldn't think of anything to say to that, so he kept his mouth shut. And his eyes fixed on the stain. Foreman, used to hearing the sound of his own voice, didn't seem to notice, or care about, his silence.

"He's out of surgery." Foreman continued, the slightest hint of relief present in his voice. "And Cuddy gave him the ketamine."

"Good." He said. The stain was glaring at him, all crimson red with a dull sheen. He swallowed back an encroaching wave of panic, as the stain seemed to pulse in front of him. House would be okay. He was out of surgery. The worst was over. But there had been so much blood…

"Chase…Chase!" He stirred, jumping slightly, and set his gaze on Foreman. "It's kind of weird that you're sitting there staring at House's blood on the floor. Maybe you should go home."

"I'm fine." He said again. Foreman looked at him skeptically. "It's quiet in here…out there everyone wants to hear about what happened. But they don't…they won't come in here."

"They removed the police tape. It's only a matter of time."

He shrugged, and turned his attention back to the stain. He couldn't think about moving right now. He couldn't possibly get up. He had no idea what his next move should be, how he should go about his week. No idea how he should carry himself, what he should say to people, where he should go, what he should do. Should he go home and have a shower? Should he hit the nearest bar and drink the day out of his memory? What if something happened to House overnight, and he wasn't here?

He shook his head slightly, squeezing his eyes shut. He couldn't think about that, refused to let his mind wander to that possibility. Instead, he opened his eyes and focused again on the stain, transfixed, the crimson all he could see, the rest of the room blurring and fading, unimportant.

Suddenly it was gone, a towel obstructing his view. Plush navy fabric covering the harsh crimson stain. The room came back into focus. Foreman had moved, he noticed, slightly surprised. The neurologist had apparently retrieved the towel from somewhere and dropped it onto the ruined carpet.

"Go home, Chase." Foreman said, moving towards the door. "You look like crap."

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	4. The Chair

**Chapter Four: The Chair**

A pair of haphazardly discarded Jimmy Choos sat at the base of the chair, their gleaming colored leather bright against the neutral tiled floor. Slung across the back of the chair was a black suit jacket, the normally clean and pressed material wrinkled and forgotten. Sitting atop the chair, contorted position clearly illustrating years of yoga experience, was the Dean of Medicine. Her eyes, all dull blue and dark circles, were fixated on the man in the bed before her.

Time had faded, no longer important. She had no idea how long she had been in the chair, though her cramping legs suggested it had been a while. A slow trickle of people had been in and out throughout this undetermined amount of time—House's surgeon, an array of nurses, both Cameron and Foreman (although Chase had, as far as her addled mind could make out, been uncharacteristically absent).

She had only recently (How recently? Fifteen minutes? Two hours?) sent Wilson for a coffee and the added joy of informing House's parents of his latest crisis. She felt no shame in passing off this task that she had so reluctantly performed after House's infarction. No one should have to hear Blythe House's voice break in fear and panic more than once. And now, especially since Stacy was nowhere to be found, she couldn't bear to leave him alone. She held fast to the irrational thought that if House wasn't in her field of vision, if she was distracted for a moment by something less important, that something terrible would happen to him. And this she would never be able to handle.

She sighed deeply, and readjusted her position on the chair. Absentmindedly, she pulled her thick hair away from her face into a ponytail, securing it with a loose rubber band she had discovered in the bedside table drawer. She scooted the chair closer his bed, and reached out a hand hesitantly.

Her shaking hand hovered over his bandaged neck, as if by pure will she could heal the wound herself. A block of ice seemed to settle at the pit of her stomach as she allowed herself, for only a moment, to remember the seriousness of the situation. Mere seconds later she had swallowed back the feeling and moved her hand a few inches to his jaw. Tentatively she stroked his skin, rough with stubble. As expected, he made no movement, gave not outward sign that he had felt her touch.

He looked peaceful…but empty. His piercing blue eyes were hidden from the world, his often playfully over-exaggerated facial expressions paralyzed. Unnaturally still, his cane was nowhere to be found. And he was quiet, so quiet…that, more than anything, is what disturbed her the most.

"Where are you?" She whispered softly, stroking his pale forehead with the back of her hand.

He would never allow such delicate gestures to be used upon him in consciousness. She had tried once, a long time ago, to express her affection towards him like this as he slept beside her one evening. He had, being an unusually light sleeper, woken immediately, narrowing his eyes and frowning slightly. Embarrassed, she had covered her obvious faux pas by kissing him intensely once more, pressing her naked body against his beneath her bed sheets. He never mentioned it, and she never attempted it again. Until now.

With one delicate finger she outlined his facial features, across his eyebrows and around his closed eyes, up and down the bridge of his nose, around the mouth with which she had once been so intimately familiar. He felt warm beneath her touch, which helped to offset the unnerving silence and unfamiliar ventilator snaking from his mouth.

"Can you feel this?" She asked, brushing the hair from his forehead gently.

A knock interrupted her silent conversation. She pulled her hand out of his personal space, and curled back into the chair. Wilson stepped inside, extending a Styrofoam cup of coffee towards her. His eyes were large and sad, his usually neat appearance rumpled. She accepted the coffee silently, searching his countenance for an idea of how the phone call had gone.

"Did you…" She prompted.

"Yeah." He said, pulling up a chair on the other side of House's bed. "I did."

She asked nothing more, remembering her reluctance to relive the conversation she had had with Blythe years ago. She watched as Wilson, unused to showing his affection for House in a physical way, tentatively slid his hand beneath House's limp one.

"They'll be here tomorrow." He said softly. "The earliest flight they can get."

She nodded once in understanding, and repositioned herself in the chair. It was going to be a long night.

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